


Stay Perfect

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Possessiveness, SO, Therapy, Unrequited Love, i don't even know how to tag this shit, it was a vent fic, it's one big mess, take that as you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14758506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: It's a therapy session but not the kind you're used to.It's a love story but not the type I usually tell.It's Pete and it's Patrick but it's not PeteandPatrick at all.(One-sided Peterick, kinda)





	Stay Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god above I don't know why I'm posting this. Wait. I do. I stayed up until five am writing this and there's no point letting it go to waste.
> 
> Some people go through an emotional experience-- let's call it a form of heartbreak-- and are able to turn their sorrows into optimistic pieces about getting better. Some people project all their sadness onto a character or pairing in a way that makes sense.
> 
> Somehow, I ended up with this when I tried to vent through my stories. So here you go.
> 
> Also. Yes! I have another multi-chapter fic I'm working on! But I'm posting something else before finishing it! This is nothing new, why are you all surprised??

“You’ve been through this before, haven’t you?”

It’s a cold sentence in the summer-soaked office— a room masquerading as therapeutic and painted as comfortable even though the placating smiles speak of nothing more than broken cracks of sanity and judgment resting underneath. Dr. Saport’s words aren’t as careful as they should be, though, and they sink into the neverending silence like an anchor that’s been cut free.

Patrick presses deeper into the dusty cushions of his chair, not hiding from the question but not reacting to it, either. He folds in on himself, wondering how much force it would take to disappear within the pale pinks and greys surrounding him. One more held breath and he’ll never stop falling; one more useless wish and everything will fade, at last.

In the corner of the room, behind Dr. Saporta, Pete crosses his arms.

“Been through this before,” Patrick repeats slowly, tearing his eyes from Pete and back at Dr. Saporta’s gaze— medical and methodical. Dr. Saporta’s pen bounces off his paper in an unsteady rhythm when he glances back down, underlining and circling the variety of words he’s already written in the few moments Patrick’s been here.

Few moments? Patrick glances at the clock, eyes narrowing as he takes in the slow ticking of the hands, the gentle tocks of the gears inside.

Noon— the clock claims that it’s noon. Patrick huffs out air that’s become stale from how long it’d been trapped in his lungs. Another hour left? Maybe two? He can never remember how long these sessions are supposed to be, let alone what’s supposed to happen after.

Dr. Saporta remains silent, glancing back up at Patrick as if expecting an elaboration.

“I don’t see how that would be relevant to the situation.” Patrick does his best to keep from sounding as irritated as he feels but Pete’s sigh— his signature mix of a laugh and an exhale— tells him he may have failed.

It’s worth it, though, when Dr. Saporta’s eyebrow raises and he writes another sentence. 

“And what is the situation?” He asks in a voice that implies he already knows the answer. Patrick could scoff at the question but one look at Pete’s stiff posture has him holding the resentment back. Pete’s pressed against the wall, eyes hidden by the thick black bangs falling over his face. He hasn’t looked up once since the session began and Patrick reminds himself he’s doing this for him. He’s doing this so Pete will want to look at him again, so Pete will want to smile at him once more. “Is that something you’re ready to discuss?”

Patrick tenses, his eyes flickering towards the window. It’s dark outside, shadowy and silent; he hopes it won’t rain, he didn’t bring an umbrella and Summer rains are the worst— unexpectedly harsh and harshly unexpected. 

“It’s a stupid situation,” he admits, swallowing and looking back at Dr. Saporta. "You know that, right?”

Gabe tilts his head to the side in a manner that may be condescending. Patrick can’t tell whether or not it is. 

“All I know is that you’re here because of it,” he says. “It can’t be stupid if it sent you here.”

Patrick shuts his mouth, staring down at his dark jeans. They’re too tight and dirty; he should have changed before coming, why didn’t he? He’ll have to wash these when he gets home, he thinks as he rubs his sweaty palms across them. 

He glances at the clock. Noon.

When can he go home again?

“I—”

“You have to talk to him, Trick,” Pete says, mumbles, whispers. “You have to tell him.”

Patrick drops his gaze once more. He bounces his leg, draws out the silence, does anything to make time move quicker.

“What do you want me to say?” He whispers. He doesn’t know who he’s asking. “That I love Pete and finally decided to do something about it?”

“You can start there,” Dr. Saporta says. Soft and gentle, everything Patrick doesn’t need right now. “You can start wherever you like.”

“I—”

“Tell him how we met.” Pete’s voice is still indifferent but he’s turned, just a bit, his body facing Patrick now instead of Dr. Saporta. Patrick’s heart leaps into his throat and beats in a rhythm Patrick’s only ever considered theirs. “You like that story, right?”

As Dr. Saporta begins to write again, Patrick finds he can’t look away from the boy he fell in love with years ago.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ It was four years ago, in the time where Fall and Winter caressed each other with brisk winds and ice storms. Chicago was welcoming midnight and all was still. _

_ Patrick was eighteen and riding in the passenger seat of his best friend’s car, laughing and whooping as they rode the remaining high of whichever show they had managed to sneak into— even now, Patrick can’t remember which one. It was all a blur at the time, anyway. All he was aware of was the sickening scent of Sharpie still strong on his hand and the chilling wind pouring through his hair when Joe rolled down the window.  _

_ Magic and madness and every cliche. He could barely see through eyes squinted in laughter; he could barely breathe as he gasped for breath. That night— that morning, that day, their very lives— could last forever. _

_ And then Joe had slammed on the brakes. Patrick flew forward, choked by his seatbelt as Joe gasped for breath beside him. A thousand curses and a million bewildered questions rested in Patrick’s throat as he turned to face Joe, knuckles white with that special combination of anger and fear, only to see Joe staring wide-eyed into the road. _

_ The street lights were dim in this part of the neighborhood, more than a few blinking in their attempt to keep the roads lit.  _

_ The road— black tar, yellow stripes, white dashes— currently playing the part of a bed to the figure sprawled out across it. _

_ “Shit.” Every curse multiplied as Patrick freed himself from the seatbelt and jerked on the door handle until he fell out of the car, Joe doing the same on the other side. Pavement met his palms in a biting kiss but he hardly felt it, the cold immediately heightening and then taking the sting away. “Fucking shit, Joe, did you hit him?”  _

_ He didn’t hear an answer as he rushed for the person— a boy now, he could see, and a handsome boy, at that. A boy with dark hair and eyes shut softly, lips pursed slightly and causing Patrick to wonder if Sleeping Beauties did exist. _

_ Joe was the one shaking him awake, a tremor in his voice. Joe was the one begging for him to prove he was alive, the one checking for a pulse and a breath.  _

_ Joe was the one doing everything right. _

_ But Patrick was the one who saw his eyes open. _

_ They fluttered as light as wishes at first, impossibly long lashes brushing against tan cheeks. The boy raised a hand to bat at Joe and then, impossibly, his eyes opened. _

_ Patrick’s breath caught in his throat and he wondered if taking those drinks from the bar had been a good idea— the man who’d bought it for them had seemed nice if a bit creepy. But then his heart flipped and he found himself smiling and _ oh _. _

_ Sleeping Beauties were real. _

_ The boy had promised he was okay and laughed about getting “fucking hammered” at some college party a few blocks down. He was mostly fine as he sat up, still giggling like the alcohol was strong in his veins, but he shook as he stood and his legs seemed less than reliable when he tried to walk.  _

_ “Let Joe drive you home or, at least, to a friend’s house,” Patrick suggested, telling himself it was the right thing to do. “I’d feel better if I knew you made it back safe.” _

_ Joe stared at him, aghast, but the other boy was already grinning and nodding at the offer.  _

_ When the stranger smiled, Patrick didn’t so much fall for him as he did willingly jump into the emotions swirling through his blood, his mind, his guts. _

_ “I’m Peter,” the boy had said as they walked back to the car. “But I like my friends to call me Pete.” _

_ No one sat in the passenger seat this time, Pete and Patrick pressed together as Patrick crawled into the back beside him— to keep an eye on him, he promised Joe. _

_ “I’m Patrick,” he said, wracking his mind for something else to say. There was something in Pete’s eyes— a paradox or a promise, a world or a dream— and Patrick was sure that if he reached out and said the right thing then he could have it as his own. “My friends don’t have any nicknames for me.” _

_ “Well, not all of us need nicknames to be cool,” Pete said, turning to rest his back against the car door. He was twisted up in seatbelt and Joe would no doubt throw a fit if he saw the shoes propped up on the seat but Patrick smiled anyway, laughing like there was a joke in his words.  _

_ “Oh, so your nickname’s the only thing that makes you cool?” Patrick’s teasing tone hid in the blush he felt rising to his cheeks when Pete kicked at him lightly. Joe scoffed, loud enough that Patrick should have felt embarrassed but, somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to regret a thing. Not if his words made Pete smile at him like that. _

_ “You know, I think I like you, Patrick.” _

_ This time, Patrick looked away and hoped that the night was dark enough for his blush to be hidden. Pete kicked at him again but Patrick only tapped the toe of his shoe, tsking as he did so. _

_ “We should hang out sometime,” Patrick said, voice low to his own ears but echoing in the car. “It’s the least you owe me- us-  _ me _ after saving your life out there.” _

_ Pete didn’t respond but, when Patrick looked over, his eyes were glimmering. _

_ It was all the answer Patrick needed. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

Dr. Saporta’s writing pauses; Pete’s head turns away. His eyes are still hidden, always hidden, and Patrick wonders if he said the right things.

“Did you love him?” Dr. Saporta asks, tapping the bottom of his pen against the desk. “At that point, that is?”

Patrick glances at Pete, cheeks heating up like they did that night so long ago. Pete shrugs and Patrick mimics the action.

“I don’t think it was love yet. But I think… I think I knew I could love him. And that was something new.” He’s staring at his hands, twisting them like a seatbelt, folding them like he’s praying. “I’ve never… Before Pete, I never understood how love was supposed to feel. I’ve… I’ve described it as a lock. I’ve always felt like a lock. Or, my body did, anyway. Not the pretty romanticized kind, either, with special things inside. Bank safes… treasure chests… I never felt like  _ that _ . Just… It was always just a lock, a latch, a piece of metal scraped together to keep my heart inside its cage.”

“A cage,” Dr. Saporta says, the words drawn out as if they mean something. This is why Patrick doesn’t like coming here, why he doesn’t like speaking. The wrong words are chosen to be dissected and Patrick’s left feeling like nothing’s been solved. “So, thinking back on that, do you feel your heart was locked away, as you say, to keep it in or to keep other people out?”

“I’ve… I’ve never thought about it,” Patrick says. Pete’s shoulders shake— laughing, he’s laughing. Patrick can understand— he always understands— and he smiles. “I just know that Pete’s my key. He opened me up to the idea that I could love other people and that they could love me back.”

“And that’s wonderful. But if you had to answer the question, what would you say?” Dr. Saporta breathes deeply, eyes flashing towards the clock. Patrick follows his gaze and groans. Noon, still just noon. 

When did he get here again?

“I guess…” Patrick trails off, frowning. Pete offers no assistance this time, staring at the clock as if he can make it move any faster. If anyone could do that, Pete could. 

“Yes?” Dr. Saporta pushes. Patrick swallows, wincing immediately as a fire spreads through his throat at the action. Had he been talking so much already? No, that can’t be it. Not if it’s still noon.

Just a few more answers and then he can go home.

“I guess it’s a bit of both,” he says, at last. “It’s like everything, it can work for and against someone. But that doesn’t mean that it  _ did _ . Unlocking my heart was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ No one counted the days or weeks or hours but, eventually, Pete and Patrick became PeteandPatrick. Eventually, they were the kind of friends that faded the world away with one shared smile; they were the duo that lit up every night just by laughing in the same tune.  _

_ They lost track of time as Winter shifted into Spring. They traded stories and secrets the way time traded in life and age. Patrick confessed his sudden desire for friendship, for a relationship, for anyone that could make him feel special; Pete admitted that he thought Patrick was special enough on his own. _

_ “You’re the best thing in my world, Trick. The night I met you is a night that’ll change my entire life. You smile like a tune and you laugh like morning,” Pete said, pressed against Patrick on a park bench still wet from the rain. “You’re on a different level and the rest of the world is just trying to keep up. Don’t mistake that for anything other than proof that you’re perfect.” _

_ When it happened, it happened at midnight— as all the best things do. Patrick had spent the night with Pete, watching stupid movies and telling ridiculous jokes, until they fell asleep curled together like it was something normal. _

_ On the edge of Spring and Winter, the rain outside still trying to decide whether it wished to be water or ice, Patrick woke to an empty room. He wasn’t as nervous as he could have been, though, his half-asleep mind leading him to where he knew Pete would be. _

_ Downstairs, on the porch, soaked in rain with his eyes wide open. Patrick found him, just as he knew he would. _

_ When Patrick reached him, a gentle hand on his shoulder, something inside his chest began to twist. He imagined locks and latches twisting and burning, smoke filling the cage his heart’s been trapped in for too long. The feeling reached his fingertips, traveling his veins and arteries like highways, and his breath shook as he smiled.  _

_ Pete faced him, eyes locked on Patrick’s, and Patrick was more than willing to take the blame for whatever happened next. He was already preparing his excuses as he licked his lips and stared back into Pete’s eyes. As he muttered barely coherent sentences about hearts and locks and keys, words drowning in the thunderstorm around them, he felt ready for the consequences of such a preposterous confession. _

_ When he leaned forward and pressed his lips— terrified, shy, trembling— against Pete’s, he was ready for rejection. _

_ But Pete responded differently and Patrick had never been ready for that. Enthusiasm, passion, desire… Pete pressed Patrick back against the door and the innocence of the kiss became nothing more than an excuse to hurl caution into the howling wind around them. He wasn’t ready for how desperate Pete was, too, or how short-lived— short-lived but oh so life-changing— it was as Pete’s hands gripped his arms. Pete pulled him close— chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart, lock-to-key— and promised him everything. _

_ But then Pete pushed him back and took all those promises away. _

_ Patrick’s lips were still tingling as Pete stared, breaths heavy.  _

_ “You don’t know what you’re doing, Trick.” _

_ “I do.” It was a simple response, childish and indignant, but they were the only words Patrick could string together at the time. “I want—” _

_ “I know.” Pete smiled fondly but the edges felt sharp, tearing into Patrick’s lock in a manner that would only leave scratches behind. “I know but… We shouldn’t be doing this. I love you, Patrick, I do just… I can’t like that. Not yet.” _

_ Forget locks and forget keys; at that moment, chains took the place of Patrick’s ribs, wrapping around his heart until he could barely feel it beating anymore. _

_ “But,” — And Patrick’s breath was barely a whisper as he spoke, barely even a breath as he pleaded— “You said I was special. You promised that I was perfect. What do you mean you can’t? What’s wrong? Why can’t you love me?” _

_ Pete’s own heart might have been breaking, or maybe he just knew how Patrick’s felt. His smile faded and his gaze darkened, shadows crossing over it like clouds across the moon. _

_ “Because you’re perfect,” he said. “You’re perfect, I promise, and I don’t want to mess that up. I can’t mess that up.” _

_ “You won’t.” Patrick was maybe too desperate as he stepped forward. He didn’t quite care. _

_ “You don’t know that.” Pete’s smile returned, a fraction of what it once was, as he ran gentle fingers down Patrick’s cheek. They left trails of water down the side and it was then that Patrick realized he was stained by the water Pete stood in, dripping with rain like he’d been out here for hours. “You can’t know that, Trick, but I do. We’re better off as friends, trust me. You’re perfect and you deserve so much more.” _

_ As Pete spoke, Patrick’s lock set on fire, a screeching pain crawling through his body like a cry. Metal melted and bones broke, Patrick’s vision as blurred as the sky above him. _

_ “But I don’t deserve this,” he snapped. Couldn’t Pete feel him breaking apart? Couldn’t Pete hear the flames or smell the smoke?  _

_ No. Because Pete just shook his head— sadly, like he was the one who was hurt— and walked back inside the house. _

_ And Patrick was left holding the remains of his lock as the wind and cold invaded his heart at last. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

The clock is striking noon when Dr. Saporta speaks.

“Is this your first therapy session, Patrick?” His eyes are soft as he leans forward, a sympathetic hand reaching across the desk. Neither of these charades completely hide the intrigue in his eyes; no amount of kindness can cover the curiosity in his voice. 

Patrick searches for an answer but his mind is traitorously blank. His mouth opens and shuts, a trapdoor finding no victims. His eyes scan the room, from Pete’s hands digging into his hoodie to the growing darkness outside. 

When he looks back Dr. Saporta’s smile, all he sees is misplaced pity.

“I’m… I haven’t…” Patrick trails off, caught in Dr. Saporta’s knowing gaze. Why does he ask questions he knows the answer to? Why does he ask things Patrick can’t recall? “I’m sorry, what time are we supposed to be done?” Shadows seep in through the window, the blinds trembling as wind presses her sticky fingers against the glass.

Dr. Saporta pulls back with a frown. “That’s irrelevant to the situation, Patrick. Why are you so eager to leave? Is there something—”

“Your clock is broken.” Patrick points with a shaking hand. “It won’t change from noon.”

Both Pete and Gabe look towards the clock, each with competing levels of nonchalance.

“You’re changing the subject, Patrick,” Pete says, though there’s a hint of something darker in his voice. “And the clock isn’t broken, at all. It hasn't been noon for hours.”

“Does it bother you to focus on your past therapeutic sessions?” Dr. Saporta asks, looking back towards Patrick with narrowed eyes. 

Patrick’s hands squeeze bruises into each other when he brings them back together, his limbs aching with an apprehension that grows with each invisible ticking of the clock.

“I haven’t had any therapy sessions before today.” 

Dr. Saporta waits, his gaze heavy on Patrick, before he finally sets down his pen and paper, crossing his arms over the desk.

“This is a safe place, Patrick. If I promise not to comment, will you feel comfortable talking about it?” Just like Pete, something rests beneath the surface of his words. A threat? An ultimatum? A nightmare?

Patrick shakes his head weakly, the back of his neck aching as he does so. “No.”

Dr. Saporta’s lips turn down in a tighter frown than before. 

“I’m only here to help you,” he says in a stern voice. “I want to understand your emotions and help you through it, yes, but I also need to know what progress you’ve made in the past— what’s worked and what hasn’t. Your refusal to comply isn’t healthy and, deep down, I know you know it. In order to do any of this correctly, you have to trust me.”

Patrick looks to Pete for help; Pete’s always helped him in the past. Even if he’s not looking at him, even if he’s ignoring him, Patrick’s sure Pete will be able to sense his need. 

“It’s not part of the session for him to trust you. And it’s certainly not part of his life philosophy.”

When Pete speaks— for him, about him— Patrick breathes a little easier. He makes a note to thank Pete when they go home.

Whenever they’re allowed to go home.

Resignation rolls off Dr. Saporta in waves as he sighs, lifting his pen once more. “Then tell me about that, Patrick.”

“About what?”

“About the trust. Who do you trust?”

Trust?

Patrick drags out the stillness of the room, the frozen atmosphere and the way he’s holding his breath once more. Dr. Saporta’s eyes burn into him, probing and dissecting and pretending to understand. 

Patrick doesn’t look up.

“Define trust.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ It was two years ago, Summer in Chicago; Patrick didn’t know whether to call it morning or night at any given moment, the two blurred together so easily. _

_ But, then, Patrick didn’t know too much those days. _

_ He was twenty, ending his first year of college with nothing but shadows beneath his eyes and a few scattered facts to prove it. He was twenty, never growing in any sense but going along with it when everyone said he was. _

_ He was twenty and nothing had changed. Nothing but the distance between him and Pete. _

_ Nearly a year had passed since Pete had introduced Patrick to his boyfriend— someone Patrick had neither the patience or will to remember the name of— and teased Patrick about getting someone special of his own. It was a cruel joke but Patrick knew Pete meant nothing by it— or, he hoped, he meant everything by it. _

_ Patrick never considered himself a bad person, wouldn't even say that now. But seeing his Pete—  _ his  _ Pete— with someone else stung like molten iron poured over his heart. Something thick and metallic and pained ran through his veins each time Pete visited, a pretty boy on his arm and someone else’s name on his smile.  _

_ Patrick wasn’t a jealous person. Patrick wasn’t a possessive person. _

_ Patrick wasn’t wrong— no, never. He was just protective. After all, what logical person would loan their keys to a stranger? What sane human could watch the metal become dirtied and smudged with someone else’s fingerprints? Who could so effortlessly allow such a thing to occur? _

_ Still, Pete's lover made Pete smile and made his eyes light up each time he was around. Patrick could never fault the stranger that.  _

_ But time has a funny way of revealing faults, be it within himself or others. By the time the Summer was halfway through, Patrick was more than choking on his jealousy— he was fueled by it. _

_ It was neither night or day as Pete and Patrick sat together on the park bench that used to be theirs— a park bench still wet, damp from dew, but tarnished by the way Patrick had caught Pete and  _ him  _ kissing here like they had found it first. It was neither right or wrong when Patrick placed his hand over Pete’s. A sob crawled into his chest and curled up next to his heart— vulnerable and exposed ever since Pete left him alone in the rain— when Pete flipped his hand to better hold onto Patrick’s. _

_ He couldn’t mean anything by it; he could mean everything by it.  _

_ It was the little things, Patrick had found, that drove him insane with what-ifs. Didn’t Pete know what he was doing each time he smiled at Patrick like he’d found the cure to every wrong? Didn’t Pete understand the bitterness that lived permanently in the base of Patrick’s throat whenever Pete pretended to care, pretended to listen tp laments Patrick made up to explain his irrational fits of panic and fear and  _ please, don’t ever leave me, please _? A thousand lovers Patrick must have concocted, a million broken-hearts, just to explain to Pete the one that’d been living in his chest for years. _

_ Couldn’t Pete see that Patrick loved him, still? Couldn’t he feel the fire lit by raindrops and thunder? Didn’t he know that he was the original spark? _

_ Didn’t he know that standing too close only caused the fire to burn brighter than before? _

_ That night, Patrick was burning from the inside out.  _

_ And a fire can only burn for so long before it needs something else to consume, something else to fuel its angst. _

_ “The boy you’re seeing, is he perfect?” _

_ Patrick dropped the words into the air, breaking the silence like he was prepared to do so. Pete’s hand tightened on his, night or day or something in between keeping them caught in a time that could belong to them if only Pete would let it.  _

_ Pete didn’t answer and Patrick spat again. “He makes you happy and I’m glad he does, you have no idea. I just want to know if he’s perfect.” _

_ When Pete sighed and pulled away, Patrick bit back a scream forged in the fire of his heart. _

_ “What do you want me to say?” Pete didn’t look at Patrick, didn’t grace him with the sight of oaken eyes— the only shade that was ever meant to burn. “If I say no, you’ll tell me that I deserve better. But if I say yes…” _

_ “Nevermind, you’re right. I’m being stupid.” Patrick pulled his hand back into his lap, suddenly cold. He heard Pete shift beside him but kept his distance. As if he had learned something in the last few moments.  _

_ “You’re not stupid,” Pete muttered. _

_ “Then what am I?”  _

_ Pete didn’t answer. Truthfully, Patrick didn’t expect— want, need, ask— him to do so. Because years had passed and Patrick wasn’t perfect, something they both knew very well. Years had passed and Patrick was just a kid in love with someone who couldn’t love him back.  _

_ He was an unlocked treasure chest with no one to share the jewels with. He was a bank safe that had been broken into but left untouched, a crime scene with nothing but ugly implications.  _

_ He was a cage left open and his heart had paid the price. The world was crueler than he could have ever dreamed and every evil thing, every pain and horror, had snuck into his chest and left its mark.  _

_ “I don’t know,” Pete said.  _

_ Perhaps it was the fact that it was Summer, a time for cliche romances and season-long loves, that the words struck harder than they ever had. Maybe it was the ambiguity of the time, stars shining shyly in a blue-tinted sky, that brought tears to Patrick's eyes. _

_ “I don’t know, either,” he’d said. His voice began to break and words tore in two as he confessed— another mistake, another crime. “I don’t know how to be someone you want to love.” _

_ And the worst part was that he already knew Pete knew. He hadn’t ever stopped loving Pete and he’d never been a good liar, anyway. Instead of shock and realizations, epiphanies lit by the most beautiful of Summers, Patrick was greeted with stoic silence and a condemning calm. _

_ “You can’t be, Patrick. You can’t waste your life waiting for me.” It was a simple statement, one Pete tried to ease with a gentle tone and averted gaze.  _

_ Patrick’s teeth clicked together painfully when he shut his mouth and the stars faded into streaks of light when he stared up through tear-filled eyes. If he pretended that they were shooting, could he wish for this to change? If he told himself they were falling, could he escape into a life where none of this had happened? _

_ “I know,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.”  _

_ He was sorry but, as his tears carried a star across his eyes, he begged for one more chance. He could be what Pete wanted, he swore. He just had to prove it, to show him that he was more than that kid he rejected. He wasn’t someone stupid with a crush and he certainly wasn’t perfect. _

_ He just had to make Pete see that. _

_ “Come on, it’s basically midnight. We should get going,” Pete said, standing up. Years ago, months ago, Pete might have extended a hand to help Patrick to his feet. This time, though, he placed his hands on his hips and waited as Patrick wiped messily at his eyes and followed his lead.  _

_ As Pete began to walk toward his car, Patrick panicked. The further Pete grew, the smaller his chances with him became.  _

_ If he was going to prove to Pete that he could be what he wanted— imperfect, lovable— than he had to do it tonight.  _

_ Pete couldn’t love him if was surrounded by reminders of when they were idiots sneaking into shows, memories of Patrick complaining about things like high school and prom— things that would forever paint him as a child in Pete’s mind.  _

_ He just had to get him somewhere Pete could see him for what he is now. Grown and intelligent and everything Pete never thought he could be. _

_ He just had to make Pete see and then Pete would love him, he was sure. He just— _

_ Pete was waiting by the car when Patrick made up his mind, pasting on a smile and holding out his hand. _

_ “Give me the keys,” he said. “I’ll drive tonight.” _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

“Why don’t you want to talk about the other sessions you’ve had?” Dr. Saporta’s voice grows more impatient with each imaginary minute. He hisses out a breath, tapping his finger against the desk now as he gazes at Patrick. Like a lab specimen— like something to be dissected before it could be understood.

“Because they didn’t happen!” Patrick puts more force in his voice even if he’s only staring at Dr. Saporta’s hand— still off rhythm, still illogical in its pattern. His chest heaves as he dares to look up, forcing himself not to flinch from Dr. Saporta’s probing gaze. “Why do you keep insisting that they did?”

Dr. Saporta smiles, sickly sweet, and ceases his tapping. “Why do you keep insisting they didn’t?”

“You’re making no sense. This is my first session and, even if it wasn’t, nothing else would be relevant. We’re here to talk about me and Pete, nothing else. We’re supposed to fix that first.” Patrick’s grown unsure in his words, eyes darting around the room as Dr. Saporta begins to write again. His eyes find the clock once more but he shuts them before he can see the time clicking away but never moving— noon, noon, why is it stuck at noon?

“What’s there to fix?” Dr. Saporta asks in another pushy tone. Patrick tears his eyes away from the clock before opening them, not wishing to see how much time is left; he can’t ignore him if there’s over an hour left. He focuses on his breathing, double-checking to be sure that he isn’t keeping the air trapped in his lungs as he’s so fond of doing. 

He breathes in deeply but, for some reason, the persistent ache in his chest refuses to disappear. 

“I… I don’t know,” he admits, eyes widening and the pain expanding. He grips his shirt, tugging at the collar to keep from choking. Outside, thunder roars and he wonders whether it’d be better to go outside and let the rain drown him instead of the stifling air he’s trapped in now. “They just told me I had to come here.”

In the corner of the room, Pete opens his mouth as if to speak but, for once, Patrick doesn’t want to hear what he may have to say.

When he interrupts, the temperature seems to rise.

“Something bad happened. No one needs to tell me but I can feel it. I wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t the case, right? Something happened to me or Pete and they sent me here to help me remember or forget or some shit like that but what if I don’t want that? What if I’m fine the way I am? What if I don’t need anything to change?”

Dr. Saporta’s encouraging smile doesn’t falter until Patrick’s voice becomes ice, until Patrick’s promising that he’s fine and nothing’s going to alter that. His smile drops and he exchanges a look with Pete. A horrible feeling twists in Patrick’s gut.

“And we were so close to a breakthrough,” Dr. Saporta says. “Very well, then, Patrick. What else can you say about your relationship with Pete from that point on?”

Patrick’s eyebrows raise at the shift and he looks back up, distrust beginning to course through his veins. “You’re not going to push anymore?”

“Not if you don’t want me to. The goal is to help you get better, right? We can’t do that if the questions are encouraging you to reject your progress— a sign of negative behavior. And negative behavior can lead to worse things, you know. Self-destruction, violence…” Dr. Saporta smiles and it’s like nothing Patrick’s seen in his life, sharp and twisted and large. “Tell me, Patrick, have you ever hurt anyone?”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ It was two years ago. It was Summer in Chicago. _

_ Patrick still didn’t know if it was morning or night.  _

_ What he did know— because he knew so little these days and he understood even less— was that Pete couldn’t love him if he was perfect.  _

_ And who ever said Patrick was perfect?  _

_ A perfect Patrick would do more than get lost in Pete’s eyes and he’d know better than to warm himself with his laughter. He’d drive them straight home, make plans for tomorrow, do anything other than this.  _

_ He’d realize how dark the roads were that night, long before Pete realized they had passed their destination. Fear, not exhilaration, would fill his veins as he drove as fast as he could down the empty street. _

_ “Patrick, what are you doing?” _

_ “We need to talk. I need you to know that I love you.” _

_ “Patrick—” _

_ “Pete! I love you, okay, and I know that you hate it but I’m gonna make you see that it’s okay. We’ll go somewhere out of the town for a while— run off like we always used to joke about. And we can figure it out and you can see, really see. You loved me first, remember? I was the first person you called perfect, the first person you were too afraid to touch. But now you’ve found someone else and you expect that not to hurt? You expect me to be okay?” _

_ “You need to slow down—” _

_ “You need to listen!” _

_ A perfect Patrick would put a stop to it before it could start. He’d tell himself to slow down before everything became a blur. He’d tell himself to stop before the rain began, before the lightning and thunder and pouring drops splashing across the windshield made it impossible to see. _

_ He’d be able to save them both. _

_ A perfect Patrick would do everything he should. _

_ "Patrick, please!" _

_ But he'd never been perfect and it was a crime to ever pretend he was. _

_ Stupidly imperfect, Patrick sped up and ignored Pete’s screams; he laughed as he did so because there was no other option left. He rolled down the windows and laughed and whooped. _

_ “It’s just like the night we met!” _

_ Impossibly imperfect, Patrick shouted words that were lost in the wind before they could matter.  _

_ Perfectly imperfect, Patrick turned to face Pete, smiling like a tomb and laughing like mourning.  _

_ His vision blurred as Pete tried to shake him out of whatever trance he was convinced Patrick was in; his limbs became impossible to move. _

_ Patrick saw Pete but he also lights flashing across his face, too bright to be okay. When did he come so far onto this side of the road? _

_ He kept his eyes on Pete, though, because that’s what he’d always done best. Watch Pete, love Pete, wait… _

_ At the last second, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against his once more. He swallowed every scream and inhaled every sob.  _

_ He felt the exact moment that Pete’s cries stopped. _

_ The car jerked in a different direction without warning. Metal screeched and tore apart— locks and keys, Patrick was sure. The seat belt wrapped around his throat as the car began to spin but he kept his eyes on Pete’s, blurred as his vision was.  _

_ Even when the car slammed to a halt, even as his hands fought to tear the seatbelt from his neck, even when his own vision began to fade in and out of darkness, he kept Pete in his sight. _

_ Bright lights. Screams. A slowing thud inside his chest. _

_ In the distance, the clock struck midnight—  _

_ <><><> <><> <><><> _

Patrick cuts himself off with a horrible gasp, a pained sound like a star collapsing to the ground.

Dr. Saporta grins.

“Do you still think you’ve never hurt someone?”

Patrick can’t tear his eyes away from the clock, timing his breath with each unseen second. Dr. Saporta and Pete are both silent and Patrick’s breaths only grow more ragged.

“I didn’t do all that,” he says. “I don’t know why I said I did. I… That’s all wrong, I must be confused, I would never… Don’t you think that’s irrelevant, anyway?”

“Don’t you think you’re avoiding the question because we both know the answer?”

Patrick bites his lip until it threatens to break and fill his mouth with blood. Only when the pain has grounded him does he respond. “When am I allowed to leave? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Dr. Saporta doesn’t react other than to drop his pen and paper again, an action that still causes Patrick to flinch. Patrick readjusts his glasses with a trembling hand, his own confession playing through his mind.

_ “I sped up and laughed while I did it. I kissed Pete as he screamed and then—” _

“Do you want to tell me about your other sessions now?” Dr. Saporta’s words are nearly lost in the thunder that bursts through the air, closer than it was the last time Patrick heard it. 

Isn’t it supposed to be Summer? Why is it raining so hard?

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” Patrick’s gaze drops back to his hands, his vision blurring as if his glasses had fallen off. He rubs at his eyes and then rubs at his glasses but nothing clears the sudden distortion of his sight.

“But you’ve been doing so well. We just have a little more to go and then you’re free until your next session.”

Patrick clamps down on the inside of his cheek and, this time, he’s certain it stains his teeth red. “You’re supposed to help me. Why aren’t you helping me? I didn’t do anything wrong, why are you making me feel like I did?”

Pete scoffs and Patrick jerks at the sound, eyes tearing up to stare at him. As always, Pete keeps his gaze pointed away and Patrick starts to fear what he may see if Pete looks over.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to say?” Dr. Saporta’s voice is a soft challenge that sharpens Patrick’s senses, hair rising on the back of his neck as something in the air shifts. Patrick shuts his eyes, sickness winding through his guts as he does so.

“I want to go back home now, please.” Patrick’s throat aches from the force it takes to keep from shouting. 

“Patrick, you need to open your eyes.” 

It’s not Dr. Saporta’s voice; it’s not Pete’s, either. It’s a horrible mix of the two, sing-song and demented, and Patrick does exactly as they say, standing up as he does so. He turns his back, facing the door with what he hopes is a confident stance.

The clock strikes noon.

“The session’s over,” he says, more a guess than anything else. “I’m leaving and I don’t think I’ll be coming back. You’re horrible and I did nothing wrong and it’s all a lie. I didn’t hurt Pete, I would never hurt Pete. For god’s sake, he’s standing right there.”

He waits for the sarcastic response he’s used to, for the indifference Pete’s shown since their appointment began at noon.

Instead, he’s answered by the familiar sound of pen on paper.

_ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. Scritch— _

Thunder interrupts the sound, too soon to make sense. 

Over it all, he hears Pete laugh.

“Did you think it would be so easy?”

Patrick’s stomach spins and his eyes cloud over at the cold tone of Pete’s voice.

“Did you think you didn’t hurt me?”

The words hold every answer to the questions Patrick didn’t think to ask. Thunder roars and lightning strikes and the clock chimes noon always.

No, n ot noon.

Midnight.

Patrick shuts his eyes and pretends it’s rain dripping down his cheeks, that the heat is a blush leftover from the only time Pete kissed him.

“I think I remember my other sessions now.” His voice is calmer than he’d like it to be. He deserves to be lashing out, to be sobbing that this isn’t fair, that he doesn’t deserve to be  _ here _ .

“That’s good progress,” Dr. Saporta says. “Would you like to tell me about them?”

“No,” Patrick whispers. He knows the others can hear them; or, at least, he knows it doesn’t matter if they do. “I’ll just forget it again, anyway.”

“Then shall I say it for you?” Dr. Saporta asks. Patrick shakes his head. He’s not surprised when his wishes are ignored.

“Everyone tries to be perfect in hopes that they’ll make it to heaven. Most times, trying is good enough— more than that, even. It’s the people that don’t try that get sent to me.” Dr. Saporta pauses and Patrick already knows what’s coming. “You aren’t perfect, Patrick.”

Pete continues for him, his voice all wrong. Patrick wonders if it’s even Pete at all. “You’re here, for now, until you can admit that you were wrong. You were close today, closer than you’ve ever been, but it’s taking a while. Every day, for as long as it takes, you will come in and confess over and over until, someday, you admit your imperfection. When you’re truly sorry for what you did.”

“Can you do that, Patrick?” Dr. Saporta asks.

Pete-- Pete but not-Pete-- repeats him. “Can you do that?”

Patrick doesn’t respond.

He isn’t perfect, didn’t he say as much? What happens if he admits it again? Will this version of hell fade away? Will he be able to see Pete— his Pete— again? 

Will he believe it if he says it?

“I’m not perfect,” he says, turning around. He keeps his gaze on the floor, not wanting to see the distorted and cracked office around him. 

“And?” Pete prompts.

Patrick grits his teeth. 

_ You’re perfect and you deserve so much more  _

The words ring through his mind like an omen, a judgment, an execution. 

When Patrick looks up, he’s wearing the smile he wore the night he and Pete died.

“And I don’t see any reason to apologize,” he spits. “Pete refused to love me because he thought I was perfect so giving that up was a sacrifice! It was the only way that night could have ended, the only way to make him see! This is a test. I know because Pete could only love me if I was imperfect and I know I am! I proved I am! I love Pete more than anyone could and  _ you will never take that away from me!”  _

Patrick’s words burn in time with the lightning outside, a strike that fills the whole room. He’s blinded by the fire it brings; he’s deafened by the accompanying thunder. Everything is a shade of white, of the colors he saw driving down the street a bit faster than he should have been.

Everything is white and burning and perfect.

And then everything is gone.

 

He opens his eyes, slowly, blinking. 

His doctor— Dr. Saporta— the name tag says, smiles patiently and gestures to the seat before him. Pete waits in the corner, having arrived for an individual session ahead of time, no doubt. Patrick will have to schedule one of those when he gets the chance.

Still, when Pete’s shoulder stiffen as Patrick walks closer, as Dr. Saporta’s smile brightens, something seems off.

“I’m excited to speak with you, Patrick,” Dr. Saporta says. “Why don’t you begin by telling me about your past experience in therapy and counseling?”

“I haven’t had any,” Patrick says, sitting down with a small frown. It's a strange question to begin with. Shouldn't he have a file on that? “Why do you ask?”

Pete grins. The sky outside darkens with the promise of rain.

On the wall beside him, the clock strikes noon. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't understand any more than you do
> 
> I... I hope you enjoyed? I know it was weird and I can barely tell if it makes sense but, either way, please leave a comment and let me know what you think :) Thank you!


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